


From The Beginning

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Semi-Public Sex, Sex in the Impala, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: Dean smooths out the scrunched paper. It's a flier for some bar in town, pictures of a band on the front and "ONE NIGHT ONLY" screaming from the headline. "What is this?""It's tonight only!" Sam spouts unnecessarily."I can read," Dean replies. "Who is Steamboat Vertigo and why do I care that they're only here for one night?"





	From The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, folks: my submission for the Dean Wincester Big Bang on Tumblr. This story has been kicking around as a WIP for probably around 9 months and it's finally gonna see the light of day.
> 
> Huge thanks to txdora for her awesome artwork for this fic. She really managed to capture the vibe I was going for, and the details in her pieces are mindblowing. 
> 
> Title from "11:11" by The Arkells. This whole fic is a love note to that song. Listen along for maximum effect.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Feedback is nectar of the gods.

                                                            

 

_1998_

Sam skids into the yard, breathing hard. "Dean!"

Dean emerges from under the Impala’s hood. His hand is on his gun before Sam can get to him, but Sam just flaps an impatient hand at the firearm. "Put that away," he gasps, and brandishes a crumpled piece of paper at him. Dean tucks the gun back into his waistband, tamping down all the instincts - hunter and otherwise - Sam's flushed face and heaving chest are rousing in him, and snatches the paper waving under his nose. Free of his burden, Sam lets his backpack fall off his shoulder to the ground, puts his hands on his knees and tries to catch his breath. 

Dean eyes him critically. "Dude, the school is only two miles away, why are you panting like an overweight hooker? Dad sees that, you'll be running your ass off forever." Sam shoots a dirty look up from under his sweaty bangs. "Didn't run from school," he says, already recovering. "Ran from town. That's five miles, jerk."

"Bitch," Dean answers absently, smoothing out the scrunched - and sweaty, gross - paper. It's a flier for some bar in town, pictures of a band on the front and "ONE NIGHT ONLY" screaming from the headline. "What is this?"

"It's tonight only!" Sam spouts unnecessarily.

"I can read," Dean replies. "Who is Steamboat Vertigo and why do I care that they're only here for one night?"

Sam's face had been slowly returning to a normal shade, but at this question he flushes back to red. "Well you don't care, but I do. I really like them and they're playing at the bar and tickets are only fifteen bucks and I have the money already, I wouldn't even need any from what Dad left, and - " Dean holds up a finger, arching an eyebrow and Sam's lips fall silent, but his face is still pleading.

"Okay, don't have a coronary." Dean scans the paper again. "It's at a bar, man. How are you gonna get in? I can pass for 21 but you got no hope."

Freshly fifteen balks a bit at that, but Sam perseveres. "It's all ages, I checked."

Dean hesitates. The need to give Sammy everything he _wants_ and not just what he _needs_ , deep-rooted and strong, is at war with Dad's thick layer of constant vigilance. A random bar in a town they've just rolled into and know nearly nothing about means strangers and unknown threats and the voice in his head that sounds exactly like his father is flatly and emphatically denying Sam's request. But Dean is not his father, despite all his efforts, and Sam's hazel eyes are piercing through him and God help him, he's never been able to deny Sammy anything.

"I dunno, Sammy..." He gives one last ditch effort, but it's not sincere and Sam knows it and throws his arms around Dean. "Thank you!"

Dean returns the embrace. Every time, Sam seems to be just a little taller and broader and Dean finds himself missing the chubby ten year old who fit so perfectly in his arms. "Rules," he cautions firmly, pulling Sam back to look him in the face. "Number one, I'm coming with you."

Sam's face tells Dean he'd been expecting that. "You're not gonna like the music," Sam warns him. Dean shrugs. "Number two: I see anything I don't like - _anything_ \- and we're out, no arguing or pitching a fit. I mean it."

"Yeah, fine." Sam is used to rules like these, would have been expecting nothing less. He waits, fidgeting. "Is that it?"

Dean shoots him a look. "Homework done before we go. If it ain't done, we ain't going." Sam inexplicably beams. "Knew you'd say that, so I did it all before I left school."

"Oh ho, okay Mr. Brainiac."

Taking this as an end to the conversation, Sam snatches his bag from the dirt and darts into the house. Dean follows behind, heading into the kitchen to get dinner going before they have to leave. He checks his wallet. Dad only left yesterday so they're still flush with cash; fifteen bucks cover and a few beers is easy enough, and Dean knows how to drink for free at a bar. Maybe he can even swing a shitty, overpriced concert t-shirt for Sam.

He can hear the shower running as he dumps canned tomato soup into a saucepan. He peers into the sparse cupboards, but no one had left any spices and they never picked any up, only the essentials. He splashes some milk into the soup to make it creamy, the way Sam likes it.

Sam's bowl is rapidly losing heat and Dean is halfway through his, but Sam hasn't emerged from their shared bedroom. Dean moves down the hall to hammer on the door. "Get out here and eat, doofus. We gotta leave soon."

Sam opens the door, bangs combed down over his eyes. He needs a haircut, Dean muses, thinking back to their cash and emergency-only credit card. Sam brushes past him to the kitchen, sliding into his chair and attacking his soup with the usual enthusiasm of a teenage boy, his head downcast.

Dean can feel the excitement radiating off Sam, but he's still got his head down - any further and he'll be drowning in tomato soup. "Sam?" Dean questions, putting his own empty bowl in the sink. Sam flicks his eyes up, under the bangs, but won't meet Dean's gaze. "Yeah?"

Suspicious, Dean comes from behind, catching Sam under the chin and tilting his head up so the bangs separate. Sam freezes, soup-laden spoon hovering above his bowl, threatening to spill. Dean takes a second to focus. Sam's familiar hazel eyes are rimmed with sooty black, artfully smudged in the corners. The makeup brings out colours Dean has never seen, and he's been staring into Sam's eyes for fifteen years. Dean can feel his breath catch in his chest. He's always been a sucker for eyeliner.

Those dark-rimmed eyes are wide with trepidation, emphasized by the makeup. Dean can feel Sam cringing under his grip, waiting for Dean's explosion.

Dean clears his throat purposefully. "Where'd you get that?" he asks casually, letting go of Sam's chin. Sam's jaw falls open cartoonishly. "Uh...lifted it from the drugstore," he admits, trying for defiance but falling short. Dean snorts. "You get picked up for shoplifting makeup and I'll let you rot in jail," he says, but without bite. Sam nods fervently, eyes still wide. "Keep it outta Dad's sight," Dean adds unnecessarily. This earns a scoff from Sam.

"Hurry up." Dean gestures at the bowl and Sam knocks back the rest of the now tepid soup in record time, clattering his bowl into the sink. He spins to face Dean. "Do I look okay?"

Dean appraises him. He's dressed in dark jeans and a navy and black flannel open over a black t-shirt - a v-neck, must have bought it for himself 'cause they only ever get crewnecks. Dean is entranced by the open view of Sam's throat. He doesn't realize that he's even moving until he sees his hand reaching out, tracing across smooth skin to dip into the hollow of Sam's clavicle. He feels Sam swallow hard beneath his fingers. Reluctantly, he pulls his hand away, looking up to meet the huge, black-rimmed eyes. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," Sam tries, but his voice cracks impressively and he makes a face and Dean laughs and the moment is broken, leaving little jagged pieces behind.

                                                       [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152189271@N05/40144641501/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

The bar isn't far and they arrive well before the time listed on the flier. They join the line that's formed at the door, Sam bouncing irritatingly up and down on the balls of his feet. Dean swats the back of his head. "Stop that." It's a mark of Sam's distraction that he doesn't retaliate, merely nods and controls the bouncing down to a slight bob.

They reach the front of the line and the guy checking IDs looks barely older than Dean. Sam fumbles his school ID from his wallet - the last school's card, they haven't been here long enough for Sam to get one from the new school. The guy looks it over, picks up a fat black permanent marker and inks a big X on the back of Sam's right hand.

Dean has a license that says 1977 but he doesn't bother pulling it out. Instead, he tilts his head back and just slightly to the right and lets his eyes slip to half-mast, silently appraising the hapless guy. That look works on everyone from sweet old ladies to this dude, who blinks and furrows his brow and waves them through.

"Sucker," Dean gloats as they enter the dark bar. They pay for their tickets at a tiny table just inside the entrance. Sam makes for the crowd that's starting to bunch up near the stage, but Dean hooks a finger in his collar and brings him up short. "Keep your eyes open," he warns. "I'll be over there." He motions to the far end of the bar. "Check in at intermission." Sam nods eagerly. His face is flushed with excitement, eyes sparkling like they used to all the time, but haven’t been lately, and Dean has a sudden urge to pull him closer and -

He releases Sam, who takes off like a shot. Dean settles onto the bar stool he'll be calling home for the next few hours and flags down the bartender for a beer. The guy, older and hard-looking, raises an eyebrow at him, but Dean offers up his X-free hands and a cool, sweating bottle is soon in his hands.

Two beers in and the band has been on stage for a while, the volume deafening. Dean cranes his neck and spots Sam pressed right against the barricade, stretching his arm across as the lead singer runs along the stage to give sloppy high-fives. The hard-bitten bartender is replaced by a guy with too many tattoos and obnoxiously maintained facial hair, and Dean has sized him up like a ten point buck. That’s where his free drinks will be coming from.

In under thirty minutes, Dean has started an argument with the guy about whiskey and has gotten 4 free shots for his trouble. He enjoys this game, but it only works with the right kind of guy behind the bar. His head is buzzing just the slightest bit as the pounding music subsides and the lead singer promises they'll be back in ten minutes.

On cue, Sam bounds up next to him. He's sweating and tousled, a smudge of eyeliner on his cheekbone, but his face is glowing and when he speaks, his voice is already hoarse from singing. "God, they're so good," he says, eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy. Dean's grip on his beer slips as he watches a bead of sweat roll down Sam's temple. Sam looks at him. "Are you even listening to them?"

"It's hard not to hear, Sam," Dean points out. "They're not bad. Not my scene, though." He tilts his head at Sam. "I've never know you to get all excited about music."

Sam snorts derisively, the sound dry. Dean catches the bartender's eye and makes a motion for water as Sam continues. "Dude, it's not really like I have much chance to get excited about music," he complains. "All we listen to is Dad's music. Which is the same as yours. Dad would never let me listen to anything like this in the car. And I don't have much money to spare for CDs or anything anyways. Oh, thanks." He clutches the glass of water that the bartender sets down before him gratefully, gulping down half in one unbroken swallow. Dean tracks the long column of his neck, watching his Adam's apple bob. Sam clears his throat and chugs the rest of the water. He leans against Dean's bar stool, his overheated body pressing close.

The distance between them eliminated, Dean catches the faintest hint of beer and he's pretty sure it's not from the one on the bar in front of him. He inhales loudly and narrows his eyes meaningfully at Sam, who has the good grace to flush. "Uh...a girl I was talking to got it for me. It was a sealed can!" he says quickly, reading the flash in Dean's eyes.

Dean chooses not to comment. He was drinking younger than Sam, whenever the opportunity presented itself, and he doesn't begrudge his little brother one sneaky beer. At least Sam had been smart enough not to accept anything open. “A girl, huh?” He traces a finger over the black X on the back of Sam's right hand. The sweat has caused the ink to bleed into his pores, becoming fuzzy around the edges. He can feel Sam's hand quiver under his touch and he's suddenly conscious of everywhere Sam's body is pushed against his own.

"Dean," Sam starts, but lets the word trail off. The air between them is electric with tension and Dean doesn't know what to do. He feels pulled in all directions; part of him wants to push Sam away, another is screaming at him to capture Sam's parted lips with his own, something else tells him not to do anything for fear of ruining everything, even if there isn't anything to ruin.

He's spared the agony of a decision as the bartender comes to remove Sam's empty glass. The thump of a drum kit testing a rhythm sounds through the air, followed by the twang of an electric guitar not plugged in. Sam pushes off Dean, eyes on the stage where the band is going through soundcheck. He flicks his gaze toward Dean, who grins with more bravado than he actually feels and inclines his head towards the stage. Sam looks like he might linger, but he leaves - not without a glancing brush of his hand across Dean's forearm.

Once it's safe, Dean exhales explosively. He can see the hairs on his arm where Sam touched him standing on end. He shifts uncomfortably on the stool. He's hard as a rock, dick pressing almost painfully against the seam of his jeans. He drains the rest of his beer and gets off the stool, heading for the men's room.

It's empty when he gets inside, thankfully. He ducks into the stall and stares down at his crotch, the clearly outlined bulge in his jeans. The alcohol he's already consumed is clamouring for release, but his dick has other plans and he doesn't feel like trying to piss with a raging boner. He grimaces at the idea of jerking off in a bar bathroom, but he knows he won't come down without help, so he unzips his fly and frees himself from the prison of pants and boxers. His cock springs up, eager and unashamed of the undesirable location or the fact that Dean's baby brother has brought it to full attention.

_Sammy…_

Resigned to his task, Dean conjures a mental image of Sam: dreamy hazel eyes smudged with dark shadows, a faint sheen of sweat coating his skin, his wide lips parted, heavy breaths escaping between them. The eyes are gazing up at him from below, as though he was kneeling in worship. The lips part further, pink tongue darting out to lick them, white teeth pressing into the lower lip and suffusing it with blood.

Dean strips his hand along his aching body. The Sam in his head is indeed on his knees, spit-slick lips stretching to envelope Dean in moist heat. Dean flicks his thumb on the underside of his head, Sam's agile tongue in his fantasy. He lets his head fall forward, gasping as Mind Sam forces Dean’s cock further in. The press of his thumb over the slit is the roof of Sam's mouth. The fingers he flexes around himself are the muscles of Sam's throat fluttering around him. The drag of his nails along his length are Sam's teeth, scraping just enough to send a shiver rocketing down his spine.

He hisses through clenched teeth when his orgasm slams into him, spilling over his hand. Mind Sam is swallowing his come, throat working the same way as when he'd gulped down the water, his hazy eyes focused on Dean.

Dean rests his head against the wall and lets his breathing slow. The whole thing had taken only a few minutes. Dean breathes a soft "Fuck”, trying to clear away the ghostly images of his little brother sucking his dick. He cleans his hand with toilet paper, pisses while he's got the chance, and washes his hands without looking in the mirror.

The band is in full swing again as he exits the bathroom. He can see Sam right at the front, pressed against the barricade. A tall brunette is clinging to his arm, both of them singing and swaying to the rhythm. Dean supposes this is Beer Girl and entertains a brief fantasy of parting the crowd like Moses parting the fucking Red Sea, ripping Sam from the clutches of this stranger, yanking him into the backseat of the Impala and ravishing him the way he deserves to be ravished. He shakes this thought from his head ruefully. How fucked up was it that instead of feeling pride in his awkward geek of a teenage brother for picking up a pretty cute - and obviously older - girl, all he wanted to do was ruin it and claim Sam for his own?

He returns to his bar stool, and gets another beer, ignoring his own better judgement. He nurses it, letting his fingers drum on the bar in time with the music. He doesn't care for the overproduced guitar or the whiny lyrics, but he can appreciate a good beat when he hears it and the bassline is thrumming in his chest, a familiar rumbling feeling that tickles the oldest edges of his memories.

An hour later, the show is over. Steamboat Vertigo play their last encore and retreat from the stage, leaving that peculiar white-noise rush of silence after so much sound.

The house lights come up. The crowd is thinning and Dean stands, stretches, feels his head spin just a little. He casts around for Sam, crossing the floor toward the stage. He spies Sam at the corner of the stage, near the barricade - but he’s not alone. Beer Girl is wrapped around him, kissing him deeply.

As Dean watches, feet glued to the floor and eyes glued to the entwined figures, they break apart. “Bye, Sam,” Beer Girl smiles at him and slips away, past Dean without even seeing him.

Sam is swaying on the spot, an odd gleam in his eyes. As Dean approaches, Sam looks up and a wave of guilt, or maybe shame, sweeps across his face. Dean doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he jerks his head at Sam and turns to leave. He hears Sam fall in step behind him and they exit the bar.

The October air is bracingly cold and Dean inhales sharply. They reach the car, but instead of climbing in, Dean rests his arms on the roof and buries his face in them. His head is spinning worse now; whether from the booze or the jealousy coursing through his veins, he can’t tell. There’s a familiar warmth beside him. “Dean? Are you drunk?” Sam’s voice is wrecked, faint and hoarse.

Dean lifts his head and looks at Sam, right beside him, right in his personal space like he’s always been. He focuses on Sam’s mouth, where a trace of Beer Girl’s lipstick lingers in one corner. He raises a hand, wipes it away with his thumb. Sam sees the red smear before Dean scrubs his hand on his jeans, and he licks his lips unconsciously. That quick dart of pink tongue is enough to crack something open inside Dean’s chest.

He explodes into motion, pushing Sam up against the car, bracketing him with a hand on either side. He crowds in close, towering over Sam, who is startled, freezing like a deer in headlights, no response from any fighting instinct - this _is_ Dean, after all. Sam’s eyes fly up to meet Dean’s, the fading eyeliner smoky around the hazel depths. Dean reaches out to trail a finger over the streak of black on Sam’s cheekbone.

Sam’s eyes are boring holes into his, his slim chest is heaving against Dean’s, his breath is hot on Dean’s neck. Dean leans forward decisively and he watches Sam’s eyes slip shut, his chin tilting upwards.

But Dean pulls himself away again, backwards, letting the chill air swoop in between them. Sam’s eyes flutter open and his gaze is hazy. “Dean?” he asks, voice cracking painfully. Dean shakes his head. He’s too...too everything, too drunk and too edgy, too jealous and too torn up with feelings he is not supposed to have for his baby brother, and he hates everything right now. He hates stupid girls who buy Sammy beer and kiss him in bars and he hates Sammy for dragging him to the stupid bar and putting stupid makeup on his stupid beautiful face and standing so close and being so fucking _Sam_ , and digging Dean into a grave he’s not sure he can ever get out of and not even having the stupid decency to salt and burn his damn corpse.

Dean raises his hands to scrub across his face, trying to come to his senses. When he emerges, Sam is right there, too close, having pushed off the car and his smoky eyes are locked on Dean. He reaches out a hand - the hand with the smudged black X - and snags the crewneck of Dean’s shirt, yanking him forward. Caught off balance - he’ll blame it on the alcohol - Dean trips toward Sam, catching himself again on the car and Sam stretches up on his toes to seal his lips against Dean’s.

The Impala is cold beneath his hands and Sam is warm beneath his mouth; a little bit clumsy, a little bit desperate. Dean wonders somewhere in the back of his mind if this is how Sam kissed Beer Girl. She seemed to have enjoyed whatever he had done. Sam’s lips are moving against his, tongue licking past them, and Dean opens up into the kiss, pushing Sam harder against the car with their hips crushing together and pushing Beer Girl out of his mind.

His tongue brushes Sam’s, the thrill shooting all the way down to his toes. He can’t remember the last time just kissing had gotten him so riled up. He gets a hand on Sam’s jaw, angling him just the right way to delve deeper into his mouth and Sam whimpers directly down his throat. He tears his mouth away, pulling back just enough to see Sam’s eyes, thin circles of hazel surrounding wide black pupils, and Sam’s mouth, ravaged and red and wet. They’re both panting, breath steaming in the frigid air. “Dean - ” Sam tries, but Dean ignores him and uses the hand still on Sam’s jaw to bring his chin up, exposing his throat. He drags his lips over the bared slope of Sam’s neck, following the same path his fingers had traced earlier in the evening - how is it still the same night? It feels like days ago.

He finds the pulse point jumping in Sam’s neck and sucks on it deeply, bringing the blood rushing to the surface and purpling the tender skin. Sam moans beneath him and the sound goes straight to Dean’s dick. He grinds himself against Sam’s hips and he can feel the hard press of Sam’s arousal grinding back. The sensation is unreal and he never wants it to stop.

So of course, he pulls back, tilting Sam’s head to meet his eyes - glazed, lust-filled eyes. “Sam,” he manages, holding his brother steady, “If you don’t want this…tell me now.”

Sam reaches up to grip the lapels of Dean’s jacket. “Don’t stop,” he says softly, his ruined voice husky with more than just a night’s hard use. “Please don’t stop.”

The words make Dean groan and he leans back in, lining up their bodies, the heat between them approaching nuclear meltdown levels. He brushes along Sam’s jaw with his own, feels his stubble graze across Sam’s baby-smooth skin, and dives in to catch Sam’s earlobe between his teeth. Sam moans, his hands skating across Dean’s back to dip under his shirts, cold fingers on his skin making Dean shiver slightly. He continues his assault on Sam’s ear, tracing the edge with the tip of his tongue, inhaling the mingled scents of sweat and cheap motel shampoo from the tendrils of hair that tease his face.

“God, Dean,” Sam grits out and Dean feels the vibration of the words where his mouth is now latched onto Sam’s throat. “Good, Sammy?” he murmurs against the skin, remembering the way Sam had tilted his head back, throat exposed, drinking down the water at the bar earlier, and crushing his pelvis helplessly against Sam. “Mmmm,” Sam hums, like words are too much to reach for right now, and his hands curl into fists, nails scraping along Dean’s back. “Yeah, Sammy, yeah,” Dean mutters, peeling off Sam’s neck and cutting off the moan Sam is making with his mouth, locking their lips together, feeling the slick of teeth and tongue beneath blood-swollen flesh.

Sam breaks free of the kiss, breath tearing from his chest in ragged gasps. “Dean, wait,” he pants. Fear striking him dead in the heart, Dean takes a half-step back, lets his arms drop. He has a second before the guilt starts to throb in his head, but Sam grabs him by the shoulders, spins him around, reversing their positions so Dean’s back is against the cold frame of the car.

Sam steps back and drops to his knees and before Dean knows what’s happening, Sam is gazing up at him, just like his bathroom fantasy earlier, and Dean feels like he might pass out. His head drops backward onto the roof of the car as Sam’s slim fingers deftly open the button on his jeans, easing down the zipper, brushing against the swell of his dick straining desperately against the denim. Then those cold fingers are on his heated flesh and Dean shivers and jerks his head back up, watching Sam pull him free of his jeans, wriggle them down to just below Dean’s ass, so he has full access. Sam licks his lips in anticipation. “ _Jesus_ ,” Dean breathes, afraid to move, to break the spell. Then Sam’s mouth is on him, hot and wet and impossibly good and he loses whatever he had left of his mind.

He sees his breath steam in the freezing air, a harsh reminder that they are outside, in public, and his baby brother is on his knees in the gravel giving Dean the blowjob of a lifetime up against their father’s car. But Sam does this _thing_ with his tongue around the head of Dean’s cock and their surroundings vanish, the entire world narrowing down to nothing more than Sam’s mouth on his body.

He feels himself hitting the back of Sam’s throat, sees Sam screw his eyes up against the invasion. He gets a hand in Sam’s hair, pulls him off just a bit, content with the slick slide of tongue and lips around his aching dick. Sam’s eyes flick up to meet his and it’s so much like his earlier imaginings that Dean can’t hold himself together and he comes with a strangled cry.

Sam seals his lips around Dean’s dick as it pulses, jet after jet of liquid hitting the back of his throat as he swallows it down. He milks Dean through his orgasm with a gentle touch, and then pulls off with a wet smack, licking his lips again. The sight makes Dean’s hips twitch once more, one last stream of come blurting out to catch Sam dead in the face. Dean would laugh if he wasn’t so blissed out, as Sam blinks jizz out of his eyes, then reaches up a finger and scrapes it off his face, smearing the remnants of his eyeliner. He observes his messy finger for a second before popping it into his mouth and Dean’s knees give out and he slides down the car to rest on the ground, gravel digging into his bare asscheeks.

Sam lunges forward, meeting Dean’s slack lips in a fierce kiss, and Dean tastes himself on his brother’s tongue. “Jesus _fuck_ ,” Dean gasps as they part. Sam grins ferociously at him. “That’s next,” he says darkly, tugging on Dean’s lower lip with his teeth. Dean’s eyes roll back in his head. “Gimme a second, man,” he begs, trying to bring his heart rate down before he actually dies here and now, bare-assed in the parking lot of a bar.

Sam sits back on his haunches, watching his brother try to collect himself. He breathes into his cupped hands, rubs them together. “Chilly,” he comments conversationally, his voice cracking high into the upper register. Dean summons enough presence of mind to dig in his pocket for the car keys. He holds them out and Sam grabs them, climbing to his feet and opening the driver’s side door.

Finally able to breath, Dean clambers upwards, brushing gravel off his ass and tucks himself away, zipping up his jeans. He waits by the driver’s side for Sam to slide over, but Sam just grins up at him and shakes his head. “We’re not done yet.” Dean cocks an eyebrow as Sam twists the key in the ignition, gets the heat going, and then rolls over the front bench into the backseat in one smooth move. He’s reclining on his back, stretched along the length of the seat, watching Dean from hooded eyes.

Dean hesitates. Sam, eyes still locked on his, tugs his t-shirt up, revealing his flat stomach. He slides a hand down his skin, reaching for the button on his jeans, flips it open. Before he can get a hand inside, Dean has ripped the back door open and climbed in, pulling it closed behind him. He blankets Sam with the length of his body, supporting his weight on his hands on either side of Sam’s head. Sam arches up against him like a cat in heat, the hard line of his dick shoving against Dean’s thigh. Dean pushes his leg against Sam’s crotch, letting his brother dry hump him, grinding hard against his body as Dean lowers his mouth to tongue along the line of Sam’s collarbone.

“Dean, please,” Sam gasps, “need you to touch me, please.” He twists in Dean’s grip, searching for more friction. Hearing Sam beg for his touch sends a line of warmth zinging through Dean’s blood, straight to his dick, stiffening again. But this is Sam’s turn and after one fierce thrust against Sam’s hip, Dean pulls off him, easing back to tug Sam’s jeans down his legs. Sam helps, kicking off his shoes and wriggling until the jeans are a crumpled heap on the floor of the backseat. He hisses as the cold vinyl touches his bare legs.

Dean palms Sam’s hard cock through his boxers, touching the tip of his finger to the spreading wet spot on the front. Sam bucks into the touch, tossing his head on the seat. “Dean, please!”

Dean shoves Sam’s boxers off, dropping them on top of his discarded jeans. He catches Sam behind the knees, spreads his legs and kneels between them, gazing down at Sam. His baby brother is gasping and groaning beneath him, spread out like a back-alley whore, begging shamelessly, stiff cock an angry red line throbbing against his stomach. Dean takes a second to sear this image into his brain before he wraps his fingers around Sam’s neglected dick.

Sam seizes up beneath him, jerking helplessly into Dean’s grip. “Easy, Sammy,” Dean says softly, bringing his hand up in a smooth motion, running his thumb along the weeping slit. “I’ll get you there, just take it easy.” Sam forces a laugh. “I’ve been waiting for so long, Dean,” he whispers, hazel eyes burning into Dean. “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

“Fuck,” Dean breathes and tightens his grip. He’d wanted to take this slow, make it all about Sam, tease and guide him through it. But Sam’s desperate face, his hips bucking into Dean’s hand, eyes wild and dark - Dean’s only got so much self-control, as evidenced by the fact that they’re in this situation to start with. He traces Sam’s trembling lip with his free hand and when Sam jerks his head forward and curls his tongue suggestively around Dean’s finger, all that sainted self-control goes out the window.

He leans over Sam and picks up the pace with his hand, fisting his brother’s cock fast and dirty. Sam’s eyes flutter closed as he fucks upwards on each of Dean’s downstrokes. Dean gets his other hand on Sam’s collarbone, pressing down just slightly, and Sam’s eyes spring open. He whines beneath Dean’s hand, uses his own to push Dean’s grip higher, onto his throat. Dean hesitates, afraid to hurt him, but Sam whines again, pushing himself up into Dean’s fingers and Dean, lost to himself and everything now, tightens his hand just the slightest bit with a deep growl. Sam utters a low cry beneath him, urging Dean to pick up his pace on Sam’s cock with a twist of his hips. “God, Dean, I’m gonna - ” Sam’s voice cracks painfully and Dean releases his fingers, but Sam just shakes his head desperately and places his hand over Dean’s on his throat. “Don’t you fucking let go.”

The heat in Sam’s ruined voice sticks in Dean’s ears like honey and he growls again, increasing the speed of his strokes. A few seconds more and then Sam snaps taut beneath him, eyes wide and staring into nothingness. “Fuck - Dean!” His hips jerk, out of rhythm, and Dean feels the rush of hot liquid spill over his fingers, sees the jets painting Sam’s bared stomach. He slows his hand, slick with come, teasing Sam through the aftershocks.

Sam slumps against the vinyl, eyes closed, chest heaving. Dean stays where he is, rooted to the spot, come dripping over his fingers onto Sam’s stomach. He waits until Sam stirs, eyes fluttering open, They widen at the sight of Dean poised over him like a waiting predator. Sam reaches out, grabs Dean’s wrist, brings his messy hand toward his mouth. Dean’s fingers disappear into Sam’s mouth, heated tongue twining over them, licking them clean.

Dean knows the sound that leaves his throat is a full-on whimper but he doesn’t care. He leans down to touch his mouth to Sam’s and their tongues tangle together over his fingers, sharing the taste of Sam.

He pulls his fingers free of their enmeshed mouths, skin wet and wrinkled. “Fuck, that was so hot,” Sam breathes against his lips and Dean hums in agreement, pushing his tongue into the space behind Sam’s upper lip. “Pretty kinky, Sammy,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look Sam in the eye. “How’d you get so adventurous?”

“I’ve got a good imagination,” Sam replies hotly and his words head straight to Dean’s groin. The idea of Sam fantasizing about them together, the same way he has been, makes him ache. “Gonna kill me, kid,” he groans, closing his eyes and letting his head fall forward into Sam’s neck. Sam tugs at him until he lowers his body, letting himself blanket Sam fully, and they’re pretty much cuddling at this point.

“Nuh-uh,” Sam counters against Dean’s temple. “I’m not done with you yet.” Dean huffs a laugh into Sam’s throat. “Jesus, Sam. Can we take it easy? Work our way up to - whatever?”

He yelps as Sam shoves his hand down the back of his jeans, gets a healthy handful of his big brother’s ass and squeezes, fingers digging in. “No,” Sam hisses in his ear, biting down gently on the curve. “Not tonight, Dean. I told you: I don’t wanna wait anymore.”

“Sammy…” he tries, but he’s got no hope, never did, not since that dark-haired baby had first curled, snuffling, into his own small frame. Dean’s goose has been cooked since he was five years old and every first, every time Sam babbled his name or took a tottering step toward him or looked up with those bottomless hazel eyes or held out a demanding hand, may as well have been mile markers on a road they’re already too far down to travel back. Sam owns him, body and heart and soul, and Dean wonders if he’ll ever be able to say no. If he’ll ever really want to.

So he gives in, as always, and there’s no point in pretending it isn’t what he truly wants, what he’s wanted for years. It’ll just take some time to adjust to the fact that it’s what Sam wants too.

Really wants, if the way he’s grinding up against Dean, sucking what’s sure to be a prize-winning hickey into the flesh just behind Dean’s ear, is any indication. Dean grinds back, letting his body take over, and soon they’re panting and rutting against each other like the horny teenagers they are. “What do you want, Sam?” he growls against Sam’s collarbone. Sam digs his fingers deeper, pulls Dean’s hips down tighter. “Everything,” he says darkly, bordering on a snarl, and Dean’s eyelids flutter as he crushes his weight down onto his little brother. “Sam, please,” he begs. “Please. Let me do this right. You - ” he cuts himself off with a groan as Sam wriggles a hand between them and grips Dean tight through his jeans. Dean swallows hard, hips jerking helplessly into Sam’s hand, but he keeps going. “You deserve better than the backseat of a car. Please.”

Sam growls low in his throat and his next bite to Dean’s neck is maybe harder than he means it to be. But he’s never been able to ignore it when Dean begs. “Fine,” he hisses into Dean’s ear, nipping at the lobe. “But you owe me.”

“I’m happy to pay up,” Dean manages. “Now shut up.” He kisses Sam, hard and heated, and bring his hand between them to meet Sam’s, and soon Dean’s jeans and boxers are tossed on top of Sam’s.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam breathes as their bodies slide together, skin to skin. Dean can’t reply, he’s lost the ability to form words, and all he can do is vocalize the feelings rushing through him with a low moan. Sam grabs Dean’s hips and pulls them even tighter together, until Dean can’t tell where he ends and Sam begins. Sam locks his ankles around Dean’s legs and they push and grind together, sweat dripping, breath catching. “Dean, fuck yeah, feels so fuckin’ good,” Sam is muttering and Dean hadn’t expected Sam to be a talker but he’s loving it. He focuses on the dirty words coming from his sweet-lipped little brother and the dirty slide of his aching cock against Sam’s pelvic bone and he feels his orgasm - his third for the night, he realizes - barrelling down on him.

Sam's fingers dig in tight to the meat of Dean's ass, squeezing roughly. They tease into the crack and Dean goes stiff above Sam, the rhythm faltering, as Sam brushes teasingly over his hole. “Saa-aaam,” Dean drags out the word, head spinning, and he feels Sam's wicked grin against his throat. “Gonna own every part of you, Dean,” Sam hisses into his skin, dark and tempting. “Every part. You're _mine_. You belong to _me_.”

Dean can't reply, can't argue ‘cause it's the truth. Now, especially after this, he is wholly Sam’s, wholly owned. There's no going back. His fate is sealed. He groans into Sam’s hair, thrusting them helplessly together.

It's not enough for Sam though; it never is. He shakes Dean. “Say it. Wanna hear you say it.” His fingers push again at Dean's asshole, teasing the delicate pucker and Dean’s gasp is torn deep from his chest. “Yours, Sam,” he pants, completely and totally gone. “Always yours. Always have been.”

Sam's reply is an exultant sound and he arches hard against Dean and spurts hot between them, come painting Dean's skin like a fiery brand. Dean chokes and pushes down on Sam, hips jerking as he lets go, adding to the mess covering them in long, almost painful jets that wrack his body and leave him wrung out and ruined, eyes prickling with tears.

It feels like it takes years for his breath to stop catching in his chest, for his heart to slow down. His arms are trembling, still holding him up over Sam's body, until Sam reaches up and pulls him down so they're smushed together on the seat, breathing each other's air and feeling the wild thrum of each other's pulse.

There are a thousand things Dean wants to say, questions he wants to ask, excuses he wants to make, but they're sticking in his throat. Sam is nosing lazily at Dean's neck, humming absently under his breath, tracing ticklish patterns on Dean's ribcage. Dean isn't as comfortable with the silence. “Sam?”

“Hmm?” Sam’s noise is interrogative. His fingers are still swirling over Dean's skin. It's hard to concentrate.

“Why’d you kiss that girl?”

It isn’t what he’d meant to say, not at all; the words had slipped from his lips quite without his permission. Sam’s fingers on his ribs go still and Dean curses himself silently. There’s a long pause, in which Dean contemplates what within arm’s reach he could use to kill himself, and then -

“‘Cause I couldn’t kiss _you_.”

Sam’s words are soft, tentative, pressed into Dean’s throat; he’s hiding his face like he’s suddenly shy, like he didn’t just burn Dean’s world down around him with that mouth and those eyes and that touch.

“How long?” Dean asks. Sam emerges from his neck. “What do you mean?”

“How long have you - I mean, since you've been feeling - this way?”

Sam's face is blank, uncomprehending, and Sam's smart so it's not that he doesn't understand what Dean is asking - and then Dean realizes that Sam can't answer because he's never _not_ felt this way about his brother, that it's been his constant for fifteen years and it's only recently that he's been able to put a label on it beyond “love”.

The realization rocks him to the core and he feels his throat swell with emotion. He tightens his arms around Sam and now it's his turn to bury his face in his brother's skin and breathe deep, drawing Sam into his body, his lungs, his blood.

“What about Dad?” Sam’s voice is small, and he suddenly sounds very young.

_Dad_. The word sends a shiver of dread through Dean, in a way it never has before. Dad overlooks a lot of stuff, isn’t around for even more, but the man’s not blind. They’ll have to be careful, so fucking careful. Sam goes on. “‘Cause I won’t give this up. Not now that I have it. I won’t give you up.”

He speaks with the confidence of youth and Dean swallows down the cautions that hover on the tip of his tongue. It’s easy for Sam to say he won’t give them up, to act like he doesn’t care what their father would do to them - both of them - if he was to catch them fooling around, safe as he is now in the protective circle of Dean’s arms. And Dean knows that if push came to shove - well, he won’t let it. Prevention, not cure.

“We’ll be careful,” is all he says. Satisfied, Sam relaxes in Dean’s embrace.

The cold is seeping in and it’s late; Sam’s got school in the morning. Still, they remain where they are, curled together in the backseat of their father’s car.

* * *

Dean’s fingers are drumming a rhythm on the vinyl of the seat and he hums absently along with it. Sam shoots him a surprised look and he realizes he’s humming one of Steamboat Vertigo’s songs. He grins at Sam and continues humming.

In the next town they stop in, Dean scours the streets until he finds a secondhand but pristine CD Walkman, complete with headphones. He checks out the music store on the main street and buys two Steamboat Vertigo albums. He hides the gifts in Sam’s duffel and listens gleefully for the happy squawk of surprise when Sam unearths them.

Years later, when Dean returns to the motel room from a Greyhound station with red, swollen eyes and a gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be, he finds the Walkman on his bed ( _theirs_ no longer, just _his_ now, oh _god_ ). Clumsy fingers fumble with the catch and the lid pops up to reveal the album he’d liked the most.

He sinks onto the bed with a bottle of tequila and puts the headphones on.  

  



End file.
